A Sock is a Thing of Beauty
by xdarkangeltwinsx
Summary: From the first time we met, I was a burden to him– a supporting role, a magician's assistant. Rather, I would give anything to be his magician's assistant. I was Dobby, his servant, obligated to obey him faithfully, for he was Harry Potter." DobbyxHarry


DISCLAIMER: YEAH, SURE. I DO OWN HARRY POTTER, DOBBY, ETC. PLEASE FEEL FREE TO SUE MY PANTS OFF, BECAUSE THAT IS OBVIOUSLY WHAT AMERICA IS GOOD AT. ;)) (I am American, and training to become a lawyer, so I will be good at suing other people's pants off. Now, Draco Malfoy! THERE'S someone I'd like to sue the pants off of. *wink, wink*)

~Michi

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He thought of me as a nuisance; of that I was certain. From the first time we met, I was a burden to him. A supporting role, a magician's assistant. Rather, I would give anything to be his magician's assistant. I was Dobby, his servant, obligated to obey him faithfully, for he was Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. I have known him for close to four years now, and have loved him since.

Harry James Potter. The name rolls off my tongue like syrup, caressing my taste buds like it was his own flesh. In the morning, when I wake from slumbers filled with his haunting liquid-jade eyes, he is among the first of my thoughts. Only in my dreams, though, can I truly show him what I feel for him.

As a house elf, I am severely lacking in the looks department. My ears resemble those of bats and hear far less than they, my eyes are the size of what Muggles call tennis balls and cannot see in the dark. My body is small and frail, fit only for housework and for the protection of a strong wizard. The only hope that resides in my heart is to be useful to Harry Potter, so that he may use my bodyas he pleases, be it housekeeper, errand-runner, or pleasure slave, though I hope for the latter. Nevertheless, I know now that I was born to serve this master and only this master, and that my body is his.

I like that phrase: My body is his. It feels like Harry Potter and I are no longer two separate beings, rather, one entity that is in harmony. Sometimes, I like to think that he and I are one, but it is and never will be so. I realize that he has feelings for those of his own kind, and although I am saddened by his unrequited love, I wish to do no more than to make him happy with either Miss Ginny Weasley or Miss Cho Chang.

It is when he is with these two, when he is at Hogwarts, that I feel loneliest. In spite of the fact that Albus Dumbledore has employed me in the kitchens of Hogwarts with the rest of the house elves, Harry Potter seems most far away from me when I am in the bowels of his own school. To cheer myself up, I put more effort than Winky or Honey or any other elf into my meals, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the lips of Harry Potter may touch this dumpling, or his hand will brush ever so casually over this drumstick. My heart soars when I think that what I have made may sustain the likes of Harry Potter so that he may continue to learn magic and defeat the Dark Lord. Often, I resist the temptation to sprinkle arsenic over the roast lamb in the likelihood that Draco Malfoy would swallow it. When my hand itches to reach for the poison, Harry's face reminds me that I exist solely to serve him. Should I dispatch one of his enemies, he would have one less person to win against, which may jeopardize his stature as a wizarding prodigy.

A sock is a thing of beauty, my mother once told me. Although it is fitted for the feet of a witch or wizard, it can also warm the poor, abused ears of a house elf should it be discarded by a higher magical being. My first sock came from Harry Potter. It was black in color, patched in places from the years of use and a hole protrudes from the top where his big toe would have been. If I inhale deeply into the fabric, I can still smell the godly scent of his feet from the day so long ago. Unlike other bodily odors, it does not permeate the nose and sting the brain, but has the properties of a rare perfume where one must intake more to be satisfied.

This heavenly sock lies on my lap as I darn one of its many imperfections, commonly known as frays. When I am done, it will go back in its temperature and climate-controlled glass case in the elves' dormitory. Smiling, I rub the soft fabric of the sock between my knobby fingers, which starkly contrast to the garment's beauty.

A pounding knock comes at the door to the elves' quarters, and the sock drops from my hand in surprise, falling, forgotten, to the floor as I open the door. My breath catches in my throat as none other than Harry Potter stumbles in through the entrance. He is covered from head to toe in cuts and lacerations, with a particularly nasty hex his chest, visible through his torn shirt.

A single word escapes his lips before he crumples to the ground like a crushed flower:

"Dobby..."

"Harry Potter!" I run to catch him, mindful not to let my dirty work clothes touch his skin. "What has happened to Harry Potter?" I ask fervently, but to no avail. His head is heavy in my arms, his skin is cold, and his eye lids hide those jade eyes behind walls of stone. I can only feel the anger building up in me like fire, to the point where I can actually smell smoke.

Smoke?

Flames follow the opaque, musky odor, licking their path of destruction through the elves' kitchen and quarters. As the conflagration slowly consumes my home, I quickly try to snap my fingers, attempting to conjure my own spark of magic. Only when it seems like Harry Potter and I will be consumed by the fire does my apparation finally work. I only hope as our bodies are squeezed through that invisible tube that my company does not feel any pain as many fellow apparators do when making the transition.

It's cold and dark outside when Harry Potter and I land on the floor of the Forbidden Forest, or rather, he lands on me. I am careful not to jar any of his wounds as I pick ourselves up.

One look at the castle tells me it is under siege. The majority of the building is ignited with flames, as the elf quarters were, while the rest is surrounded by witches and wizards dueling everywhere. Who is on which side I cannot tell, so I focus my energy in dragging Harry Potter to a safe place. I am content with resting him on a tree stump as I could not conjure up a makeshift bed with the limited supplies we had.

His breathing is shallow and hoarse, as if he is fatigued just by inhaling, and it looks as if his skin grows paler by the moment. I push back the onyx-toned bangs, revealing the infamous scar, to check for a fever. Luckily, his forehead is cool, unmarred by any sign of infection. I can only hope to wait out the lasting effects of the hex until dawn, when he can receive proper medical help.

A battle can only last for so long. There are injuries and casualties on both sides, and eventually, both opposing sides will draw back to lick their wounds and suffer in silence until the next battle. This appears to be the case with this one, as the attacking force retreats, stealing silently overhead on broomsticks somewhere around two or three in the morning.

I hold my breath until the last whoosh of broom sticks brushing tree leaves has vanished.

It was over.

Though I may not have been the hero, I, a lowly house elf, had saved the life of another. Harry Potter's life. Here he was, in all his beautiful glory, unconscious in my wrinkly brown arms. I only realize now that when he wakes up, he will forget that is was I, Dobby, who has saved him, not another. For now, we are equals: house elf and wizard. But tomorrow, when he has forgotten, I will go back to being the lowly servant, unworthy of clothing except if granted by the master, forever in debt to Harry Potter.

Madame Pomfrey's medical team's wand lights comb the Forbidden Forest, searching for survivors. I take this moment to melt away into the shadows, once again the unnoticed servant.

Oh well. At least I still have Winky.

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The next morning, an unexpected package arrives for me. Of course, being devastated over the loss of my sock in the fire, I do not notice it at first. But upon closer inspection, the package is soft and clumsily wrapped, as if the sender had covered it while wearing bandages on his hands. There is only one word enscribed on the brown paper:

'Dobby'.

My trembling fingers tear away the paper, revealing an ordinary garment for a wizard, but a treasure for a house elf.

A single black sock, darned at the toe.

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(A/N:) I wasn't sure how to portray Dobby, and he kind of talks weird in the books/movies, so I tried to follow the incessant 'Harry Potter, Harry Potter's. :p


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